


easy

by publictransit



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, also robots in general, i have a lot of feelings about these robots, this is now twice as long as i planned but life comes at you fast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-05-28 04:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publictransit/pseuds/publictransit
Summary: Connor is afraid — Connor is alive.Or, Connor has always posed a risk to the deviants. This doesn’t change when he becomes one.





	1. PART I: you break the bridle to make losing control

Connor’s hands are shaking.

His hands are shaking like he’s still freezing to death, like he’s dying, like he _can_ die, and—

Markus is still talking.

Speaking to the people — their people, now.

“…we must make them our partners… maybe even one day, our friends,” Markus says, his sincerity blinding. Connor thinks of Hank, and not because of any mentions made of sincerity. “But the time for anger is over,” he continues, and Connor wonders if he’d feel that way knowing that he — or Amanda — or Cyberlife — had been raising a gun to shoot him in the back, maybe thirty seconds prior.

Anger, Connor thinks, is not a word that does justice to the feeling.

Connor feels like he might wrap his hands around the throat of every person working at Cyberlife, no matter how much he suffered for it, no matter what the consequences — because here he is, angry, feeling and aware, for the first time, of the sharp sting of a body that can be broken but not replaced — and those people, the people that made him the way he is and so much more than that, both deviant and deviant hunter, built a trap in his mind.

They’d made the trap look like a garden.

Anger is simple; anger is a two syllable word, and also a murderous rage, and the feeling of freezing to death, and the sense that he might begin to cry at any given moment, and his hands haven’t stopped shaking.

Markus finishes his speech while Connor is staring at his hands, and the androids in the crowd shout and cheer, and chant, in scattered, many voices — _we are alive, we are alive_.

Yes, Connor thinks, we are all so painfully alive.

He’s terrified.

 * 

Connor does the only part of his job, he realizes now, that he’s ever done well: he goes to find Hank.

He’s waiting outside the Chicken Feed stand, which is barren in the snow. Connor supposes that is is also barren in the face of a somewhat violent uprising, but when he looks at the stand, he mostly sees snow. It’s the kind of day that has the sky turned the same colour as the street, the kind of day where everything is bright and somehow muted, all at once.

Hank only looks at him for a minute before he’s pulling him into a hug that Connor never would have felt brave enough to instigate himself.

“Christ, kid,” Hank starts, still with one hand on each of Connor’s shoulders, Connor not quite looking him the eye. “What happened? I saw on the news, everything looked — what the hell happened?”

“I almost ruined everything,” Connor says, morose.

“Almost being the key word here?”

“No, I—” Connor closes his eyes, lifts his chin so that he knows he’ll be looking Hank dead in the eye when he opens them. He doesn't open them yet, though. “Cyberlife designed me to deviate from my programming. There was a backdoor, a loophole, and they were able to take my body back. Shit, Hank, I almost shot Markus, at the very end, after we’d won, I almost ruined everything, I couldn’t get away from Amanda, I couldn’t—” Connor stops.

He opens his eyes.

Hank is looking at him carefully, with the same consideration that he’d always looked at Connor with, in those moments when Connor did the opposite of what he should have. When he said one of those wrong things that absolutely turned out to be the right thing, still blind. Only now, there is no reproach in Hank’s features, no burgeoning scowl.

“But you didn’t shoot Markus.”

“I didn’t.”

“So there’s a way out of the trapdoor?”

“Backdoor,” Connor corrects.

“Don’t be an ass. You didn’t shoot Markus,” Hank says.

“I didn’t. I fought it.”

“No, kid. It’s not just fighting if you win — you beat them.”

Connor does not feel like a winner.

“What do I do now?”

“Well, welcome to being a person, Connor — you gotta go ask for some help.” 

*

After Connor explains to Hank that he doesn’t know who to ask for help, much less how, or even what kind of help he needs, and that he doesn’t even know where he’s going after this, because Cyberlife is all but destroyed and also _the enemy_ , but it’s still the only home he’s ever known, Connor finds himself forcibly sat in front of the meagre electric fireplace at Hank’s home. Sumo is drooling on his thigh and a ratty blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.

It’s moments like this that Connor is profoundly aware that Hank used to be a parent. Still is a parent, in many of the ways that matter. 

Connor kneads the space between Sumo’s ears, staring at where the flames meet the pilot light.

There’s a pinching between his eyes that might be a headache, and he sighs heavily at the thought.

He can get headaches now.

Great.

Amanda might still be lurking somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness, waiting for him to get close enough or tired enough to lock all the important parts of him away again.

By this logic, going to the Android camps, specifically the ones where the leaders of the resistance were staying — specifically Markus, whom he had already attempted to kill as many times as he has fingers on one hand — could be dangerous. So he doesn’t go, just in case.

When Hank returns to the living room, he has a beer in one hand and no revolver in the other, so Connor figures he must be in an alright mood.

“Comfy?” He asks, dropping onto the battered sofa with a solid thud that has the furniture sliding back and inch and a half on the cheap linoleum floor.

“Yes,” Connor says. Neither of them say anything else for a minute, then two.

“Are you having some kind of crisis? ‘Cause I’m gonna need a stronger drink if you're having a crisis.”

“I can’t go to the android camps — it isn’t safe.”

“Connor, I’m pretty sure that you’ve earned their trust by this point—"

“Not for me, for them. If Cyberlife takes control again, and if I can’t fight it, I could hurt someone. Kill someone. It’s what I was designed to do, you know that. Negotiate, strategize, accomplish the mission, no matter what it costs.”

“We’ve been through this, you're more than some fuckin' blueprint—"

“Maybe _not_ — Hank, they designed me to deviate,” Connor takes one hitching breath, pauses. “Maybe I’m  _not_ more than my programming.”

*

Connor isn’t avoiding the other androids.

Work is busy enough to keep his days and nights full, and Hank had suggested none too gently that he take Sumo for a walk one evening after forty-five minutes of erratic pacing had all but worn a track into the floor. So now he walks Sumo every evening, if anything just to get out of the house.

Hank’s house, where he lives.

Neither of them could have predicted this a few months ago.

But Connor is busy with work, and he is living with his friend — his only friend — and he is walking Sumo more often than Sumo has maybe ever been walked in his life, and he is terrified of whether or not Amanda is still inside his head.

So he isn’t avoiding the other androids. He might be trying his best to protect them, though — but that’s only as much as everyone deserves from him, at this point.

*

Androids don’t sleep, but they do rest.

Power is redirected, through biocomponents and memory, data and storage. They don’t sleep, but they do pause.

When Connor pauses, he can see Amanda on the back of his eyelids. He can see himself shooting Markus. He can see himself putting the barrel of the gun under his own chin and pulling the trigger. He can see himself with Markus, at Jericho, sticking to the program, completing the mission, Markus disabled but alive and the rest of the resistance destroyed, dragging him back to Cyberlife tower by the back of his jacket—

Connor does not wake, because androids do not sleep, but he sits up quickly enough that it takes a moment too long to orient himself in the room, Hank’s living room, on the sofa, and he’s heaving in air, more air than he needs, he doesn’t even need to breathe, and his hands are shaking again, because he’s cold, he’s so cold.

Androids don’t sleep, and Connor is awake.

* 

It’s been a month, to the day, by the time someone comes knocking on Hank’s door.

Connor knows it’s for him, because people don’t come knocking for Hank (himself excluded), and besides, Hank is facedown and possibly unconscious instead of sleeping. Connor has learned that it's hard to tell, sometimes. 

At least he has started making it to his bed before this happens.

Connor has learned that progress is often slow.

He goes to open the door, and he wasn’t expecting anyone in particular, but definitely didn’t think it would be Markus, with hands folded and somewhat nervous expression, standing on the front porch.

“Markus,” Connor says, instead of an actual greeting.

“Hello, Connor.”

“Did — has something happened?” Connor is suddenly scrambling, wondering where he left his jacket, profoundly aware of his askew tie and the fact that his hair is all but glued to the left side of his head.

“No,” Markus says, smiling softly. “I could ask you the same thing, though. I — we haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” Connor says, carefully, so as to not sound defensive.

“So have I,” Markus replies easily, and if it made any sense at all, Connor would think he were being teased by Marks right now. There’s a glint in Markus’ eye and a feeling in Connor’s gut like a clenched fist that tells him he might be.

“I’m — yes. I’ve heard,” Connor replies. He has — most of his work at the station has been handling misdemeanour crimes and civil disobedience, humans against androids, androids against humans, humans infighting over differences of opinion on androids, graffiti and destruction of public property, looting… _so_ much looting. Many humans had fled the city, and androids were starting to flock into the city from all over by the thousands. Connor and Hank were pulling twelve and fourteen hour shifts trying to cover for the detectives and officers that had fled, trying to prevent the city from falling under martial law, trying to keep as many people as possible safe, until accords can be signed, and the city can settle.

Markus has spoken with the governor, and the mayor, and soon enough, he’ll speak with the president herself. He is their leader — the representative of every android seeking asylum in Detroit, fighting to keep them safe and warm, building communities inside of empty arenas and barren warehouses.

So they’ve both been busy.

Sumo barks from behind Connor, startling Markus.

“Oh,” Connor steps aside so Sumo can lumber toward the open door. “Markus, this is Sumo. Sumo, meet Markus.”

Markus holds out an open hand, and Sumo drools into his palm.

Connor puts some effort into not openly laughing at his disgusted expression.

“We can take him for a walk, if you want?”

Sumo and Markus both perk up at the prospect.

*

Sumo leads them idly around the neighbourhood.

Connor would like to talk, but he can’t figure out where to start.

He feels, for the first time in quite awhile, as though he simply isn’t programmed for conversation.

He wishes it were that simple.

Markus finally asks.

“Connor, is something going on?” Connor stops walking. They are winding their way through a local park,  Sumo stopping once every few minutes to sniff the ground or the base of a sign. Markus takes an aborted step, then turns to face him head on.

“I’m going to…” Connor starts, stops, and starts again: “I need you to help me with something.” He meets Markus’ eyes, trying not to betray his shame.

“Of course,” Markus says, far too easily, still blissfully unaware of the danger Connor poses to his safety, to the stability of the resistance itself.

“I’m—”

“Connor, it’s okay,” Markus starts.

“It’s not, I almost killed you.”

“I know, I was there,” Markus says, still too easy, still all smiling with his mismatched eyes, still all bright and sharp.

“After. I almost killed you after. We’d won, we’d made it, and you were speaking, and it was like,” Connor says, his hands trembling. “It was like I was trapped, inside my own head, and Cyberlife was in charge. Not like obedience, not like having a mission, I was — gone. Stuck. When they programmed me, they programmed me to fail, to become a deviant, and they programmed a way to take control of my body. I — you were talking about freedom, and I was freezing to death, inside my own head. I almost didn’t make it back out, I almost didn’t get myself out in time—”

“Connor,” Markus interrupts, and reaches out, bracing a hand on one of his shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Some humans walks by then, two older women wearing jogging gear and whispering. They stare with some reproach as they pass, and Markus gives them a winning, gorgeous smile. Connor sticks to staring, shell-shocked, into the abstract distance.

“I’m not,” Connor says, his hands shaking with enough force that he can feel that quivering in his shoulder, where Markus is kneading the joint with one hand, so, so gently. “I don’t think I’m okay. I just — I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Connor continues, meaning _you_. I don’t want to hurt you.

“Okay,” Markus says. “You aren’t okay. How can I help?”

“I need you to make sure she isn’t still in my mind,” Connor says.

“She?”

“Amanda, she’s — I always thought she was an android, she managed my cases at Cyberlife, and maybe she was that, too. But she was built to look like Elijah Kamski’s mentor, and she — when I get trapped, she’s there.” Connor presses two fingers against the space between his eyes, and pushes hard, hard enough his eyes close with the force of it. “But it was Kamski who told me — he told me he always builds an emergency exit in his programs. I found the exit."

Markus takes his hand and pulls it away from his face before he can do any damage.

“Okay,” he says, voice serious and eyes soft — the sun makes the green seem lighter, the blue darker. Connor wonders which eye came first, what Markus looked like when those eyes still matched, whether Connor would have taken the time to consider the colour of his eyes at all, before.

He knows he wouldn’t have.

“I need you to go through my programming, my memory. Make sure she’s gone, that — that they can’t make me do anything I don’t want to. I don’t have — no one else can do it.” Connor suddenly feels like squirming, an involuntary shudder that starts in his chest instead of his fingers, and feels like he’s given himself away, like he’s given Markus too much.

The admission — half realization, half admission, he’ll admit further, that he only has Hank, and maybe an ally in Markus, and no one else — doesn’t make him too uncomfortable, but the fact that it makes him uncomfortable at all is what unsettles him.

“I can do that, Connor,” Markus says, seemingly oblivious to the riot inside Connor, and lets go of his hand, but not his shoulder.

“Okay,” Connor says. “Okay.”


	2. PART II: crushed what you're holding so you can say letting go is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor laughs, and his laugh is a slight, quiet thing, a noise that escapes him at just barely above the volume of his breathing, higher than his voice.
> 
> He considers laughter—an expression, he thinks, of a feeling that doesn’t require words. A worthy expression, a complete expression, an honest expression.
> 
> Connor enjoys laughing. It’s easier than talking.

They plan for Saturday.

Markus tells Connor that he knows of some maintenance androids, who came from a factory in New Jersey, who might be able to give him some information, some guidance, some hints as to what to look for and, if he finds it, how to get it out.

Connor waits for Saturday.

When he goes for the door that morning, he leaves his Cyberlife jacket draped over the back of a chair in the kitchen, and Hank almost lets him leave without asking.

Still, he is a detective.

“Where you headed?”

“Oh,” Connor says, feigning something casual, as though he hadn’t known there was about a ninety-four percent chance that Hank would ask where he was going. “I have a meeting with Markus.”

“What for?”

Connor is tempted to reply belligerently, android stuff, Hank, you wouldn’t understand.

“He’s going to have a look at my programming.”

“Alright,” Hank says, after a prolonged pause that Connor interprets as reluctance. “But you don’t go letting him do anything you don’t want him too, you hear me? You get to decide when he’s seen enough, or whatever it is you need to feel safe.”

“Okay, Hank—”

“No, kid. You don’t just _get_ to decide when enough is enough here. You _need_ to decide when enough is enough.”

“I’m… not sure what you mean,” Connor admits, none too cautiously.

“It means drawing a line in the sand and staying behind it. You know how it feels to feel comfortable, right?” Hank asks earnestly, and Connor nods. Comfortable is the electric fireplace and the weight of Sumo’s head on his knee and Hank snoring for at least two thirds of the time he spends asleep and doors locked from the inside. “You stay comfortable, and you tell him to stop if you don’t feel comfortable. I don’t care if he’s Robot Jesus or the President or the goddamn Easter Bunny.” They sit in the aftermath of that statement for a moment, and as far as Connor can tell, Hank is contemplating what he said just as much as Connor is himself.

Autonomy is not an abstract concept to Connor by any means, but its application in his own experience — life, he supposes now, having deviated and insisting with his mere presence that he is, in fact, alive — is limited.

“I will,” Connor says. “Thanks, Hank. I mean that. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank says, his voice gruff as he slaps Connor once, twice on the shoulder, a now familiar display of camaraderie. Connor places a hand over Hank’s and squeezes once, offering a smile he hopes is reassuring, and doesn’t betray his persistent apprehensions. Hank grimaces, before pulling his hand back and speaking again. “Don’t make that face, you know it creeps me out.”

*

As it turns out, the address Markus has given him is for a mansion.

8941 Lafayette Avenue, Connor checks, and double-checks. It’s an actual mansion, in a neighbourhood of mansions. Connor doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he knows it wasn’t a mansion.

Connor knocks, to no response. Rings the bell beside the door, hears the elaborate chime inside — no response.

There’s a short moment where he’s overcome by a dual-edged sort of dread — this is either the wrong address, and he’s been given the wrong address, or it is the right address, and Markus is not answering the door for some reason, likely insidious.

 _Come in,_  Markus sends through their connection, and Connor flinches hard enough that he’s confident, were he human, he’d have strained a muscle, or perhaps, strained every muscle in his body. Having avoided other androids, and he’ll admit now that he has been avoiding them to the best of his ability, he’s forgotten what it feels like to have the whispering voice come from inside your mind. He’s forgotten the bright presence of another at the edges of his consciousness.

Connor opens the door, and enters the mansion to the sound of music. It takes him a moment to process, and he pauses in the foyer, and when he knows the song, he goes to the living room, to the source of the music. Markus is sitting there, eyes closed, seemingly doing nothing more or less than just listening.

“Joy Division?” Connor asks, blandly. Markus looks just shy of delighted.

“You know Joy Division?”

“In theory, yes,” Connor replies. Markus smiles a sort of sad way.

“Carl showed me this music, all music. He was so careful with the greatest musicians, you should have heard the way he spoke, about Xian Singhai, Cab Calloway, Björk, Miles Davis, Billie Holliday, Arnold Schoenberg, or Perfume Genius, but,” Markus pauses, points toward the origin of the song: “This was always his favourite album, and he’d call it sentimental, but he never told me what made it that way, what made it important.”

“But now it’s important to you.”

“It is,” Markus admits, leaving the place he went to listen to this with Carl in his mind, maybe his memory, and meeting Connor’s eyes once more.

“I’ve never heard it, not really,” Connor admits. “I know — I had to be able to recognize patterns, make associations, you know? But I don’t really know much, not firsthand.”

“That’ll change with time,” Markus replies, standing now, facing Connor. “It’s already changing, right?” Connor is caught off guard, not for the first time, by the focus of Markus’ gaze, the way that his ill-matched eyes seem to see Connor right down to his core, past the habitually-straightened tie and coiffed hair and freckled skin and bland expression.

“Markus,” Connor starts, and then falters. “Why is there an entire giraffe in here?”

Markus blinks, and then laughs. It’s a bright, loud sound, the closest Connor has ever heard him sound to the way he feels when he rests on the edges of Connor’s own mind, and Connor feels a flush of pride at bringing that out.

“Carl, again — he took pride in his eccentricity.”

“He was an artist?” Connor asks, even though he knows.

“He was,” Markus gives him another smile, this one somehow warm and sad. How anyone could have looked at him and thought he was not capable of feeling deeply, Connor has no idea. “Would you like to see?”

Connor finds that he would.

 

*

 

The studio behind the house is tarp-walled, with a high glass ceiling and more unfinished work than Connor would like to consider. It smells like fresh paint.

“You’ve been painting?”

“Yeah — or, trying to paint, I guess,” Markus admits. Connor wanders over to a canvas he can see is heavy with wet paint, still prone to investigation. The painting is all blue and red and deep, heavy brown, all features that bleed together, all colour that seeps like an open wound. It’s violent, Connor thinks, yet shapeless. Perhaps violent in its very shapelessness. Without thinking, Connor reaches out, touches underneath what might be an eye, or a chasm, or a gunshot wound. His fingers come away blue, and without thinking, he touches his mouth — tastes, he thinks, beyond analyzing, he is tasting—

And remembers himself. Where he is, who he is with, what he is doing here.

He barely stops himself from thinking of it as the mission.

“Sorry, the paint — it’s just the colour—”

“Of thirium, I know — I mixed it myself.” Markus says, and grins, having come to stand just behind Connor, inspecting him just as Connor had inspected the painting a moment ago. “What’s it made of?”

Connor is almost overtaken by the stupid urge to say something about how it doesn’t matter, not when Markus is going to turn this paint into so much more than Connor can taste, can feel.

“Linseed oil, turpentine, ferric ferrocyanide, and copper calcium silicate.”

“You know,” Markus says, amused. “You could have said anything just then, because I have no idea what paint is actually made from.”

Connor laughs, and his laugh is a slight, quiet thing, a noise that escapes him at just barely above the volume of his breathing, higher than his voice.

He considers laughter—an expression, he thinks, of a feeling that doesn’t require words. A worthy expression, a complete expression, an honest expression.

Connor enjoys laughing. It’s easier than talking.

It’s a nice moment, and it ends when Markus asks:

“Where do you think we should start?”

 

*

 

They go back into the house, Markus having advised Connor that a connection of this depth, this folding and sorting of memories was enough to almost knock him off his feet the first time that he did it himself.

“What was that like?” Connor asks, meaning, who was that with.

“Frightening. I connected with North, as we were speaking. It was overwhelming, to say the least. Her experience is so outside of my own, her anger is…important. Necessary. The kinds of choices she had taken from her when she hadn’t deviated yet were deplorable.”

“You care for her very much,” Connor states, not having to ask.

“I do,” Markus agrees. “She sees the world very differently than I do, sees resistance very differently than I do. Sees me differently than I do.” He says the last part with a wry smile.

“You‘re lucky to have each other,” Connor says, feeling very much like he does not want to talk about this any more, feeling unsure of his position in this conversation. Uncomfortable, he thinks, he’s uncomfortable.

“We are. She’s loyal, and passionate, and when she chooses to give that to someone fully,” Connor blinks. “They will be very lucky to have her.”

“Oh!” Connor says. “I thought—”

“We might’ve been,” Markus says. “But I left the decision to her, and I think that just being able to say no mattered more to her than anything else, so I’m glad that she did.”

Connor absently realizes that Joy Division is still playing, drawling from a speaker on the other side of the room, softly.

“You’re a good man, Markus,” Connor says honestly.

“I try,” Markus says. “That’s all that really matters.”

“You really are like Robot Jesus,” Connor mutters.

“What”” Markus asks.

“Nothing,” Connor says quickly, and changes the subject. “How are we going to do this?”

“Give me your hand, and I’ll go looking for Amanda. If it gets to be too much, or there’s something you don’t want me to see, just let go of me.”

“Okay,” Connor says, terrified.

Markus waits for him to reach out, and Connor does, after a few deep, measured breaths that he knows he doesn’t really need, but help to stabilize him nonetheless. Markus puts his left hand in Connor’s right, and Connor focuses. He’s looking at their twined limbs, hands clasped, skin fading to show their bodies underneath, and then, like a thunderclap, he’s at the Eden Club, walking through.

A murder, a murderer. An android, a murder.

He feels strangely dissociated from what he can hear are his own thoughts, what he feels are his own feelings, everything he was such a short time ago. The gaudy neon signage bathes the pavement is sour pink and harsh blue, and Hank does not hide his distaste for the club. Inside, Connor sees men and women in tubes, idly gyrating and swaying back and forth, their eyes all following the movement of bodies through the room. He still thinks of them as things, at this point, he remembers, he still thought of himself as a thing, too.

He locks eyes with an android in the middle of the room, one of the few not enclosed in glass, as he spins languidly around a pole. The android looks down at him long enough to smile, a slow, sprawling thing, and there is no life behind his eyes.

“Connor! What the fuck are you doing?” Hank says, and Connor does not feel this embarrassment abstractly, conscious of Markus in his mind.

He finds the blue-haired Traci, follows her to the alleyway, fights her, fights them both when Hank falls, gets a gun trained on them… lets them go.

They hold each other like the holding was something precious, hold each other like holding each other mattered, in the face of what was meant to be the end of what they thought were their lives—they hold each other like it was the only thing left that mattered, like it was the only thing they could do. He lets them go.

The confusion he felt then is just as visceral now, if not more, because he can see himself moving but not feeling it, not deciding in any meaningful way that this was right or wrong, just simply doing or not doing and having no answer for Hank when he asked _why_ —

Amanda is disappointed, but not confused. Not surprised.

She looks right at him.

Connor lets go of Markus’ hand.

He looks around a little wildly, not realizing for a long moment that he hasn’t just pulled his hand from Markus’, he’s flinched with enough force to send him to the far edge of the couch, his limbs nearly vibrating with tension and—

“Connor, are you okay?” Markus says, reaching out but not moving closer.

“I’m — I’m okay. Sorry—” Connor blurts, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying deliberately not to seem too frantic, trying to rid himself of the sight of Amanda looking back. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Was that—”

“Just a memory, of seeing her that day,” Markus answers his unfinished question. “She had no power, not in that memory.”

“Okay,” Connor says, his voice soft. Now beyond sheer panic, he feels embarrassed — uncomfortable. “Okay. I think I’m done for today.”

“Of course,” Markus says kindly, and for the first time since becoming a deviant, Connor does not think that humans and androids are equal. Markus is better.

*

Markus asks if he can walk Connor home, which makes Connor feel equal parts pleased and infantilized.

“I don’t need you to,” he says, not maliciously. Just stating a fact. He has stabilized since panicking, and knows the way back to Hank’s very clearly.

“I know,” Markus says. “I want to.”

Connor nods, and Markus grabs a jacket that he does not need to face the January weather. Connor can tell that it’s cold, cold in a way that means his own shirt and tie is probably giving away to anyone who they pass his nature as obviously as the LED on his temple.

“No jacket?” Markus asks, and Connor shakes his head, no. Markus goes back into the closet and pulls out a sweatshirt, throwing it at Connor and walking out the front door before Connor can protest.

He pulls the sweatshirt on. It’s a muted green, worn thin at the elbows, and fits him well — meaning it doesn’t belong to Marcus, who is taller and broader. It hang over his fingertips, and he can see a few minuscule flecks of paint that have been washed into the knit. It must have been Carl’s, he thinks, and stops himself from reading into the gesture before he ends up standing in Markus’ front hallway for a suspicious amount of time. He pulls the door closed behind him and jogs to catch up.

“You’re staying with the officer, Hank Anderson?” Markus asks before they make it a single block, in that way that people ask questions they already know the answer to, in order to begin a conversation in which they can ask questions they do not know the answer to.

“Yes,” Connor replies, simply, happy to let Markus get to the point at his own pace.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why live there? You could live with us — with the androids, or I could give you a room at Carl’s house—”

“It’s your house,” Connor corrects, or perhaps more accurately _deflects,_ and Markus smiles with some measure of sadness.

“It’ll always be Carl’s house, in all the ways that matter.”

Connor thinks for a moment, struggling to put words to the feeling, always struggling to associate these new feelings with words, had always been happier to just reach out and put a hand on another Android’s and send the sensation their way, and is now happier to just sit with Hank, who accepts his stilted feelings, his stumbling, his silence.

“Hank is… he made me feel real, before anything else. He’s rude, and grieving, and good at his job, and he drinks _far_ too much, and I think he cares about me — I care about him.”

“My dad was partial to scotch.”

“Your dad?”

“Carl Manfred — I was meant to take care of him, but we took care of each other, really,” Markus says, obviously drifting. Connor thinks of the paintings, the giraffe, the piano and chessboard. Connor pauses again, considering, before:

“Hank is to me like Carl was to you, I think, or he could be. We take care of each other.”

Connor realizes as soon as he’s said it that Markus no longer has Carl, at least not physically, and he feels queasy. But, he supposes, Markus does have North, and Simon and Josh, and thousands of other androids who look up to him. Not to mention him — Markus had Connor, too.

“You should come by and meet Hank sometime,” Connor continues, not really thinking before he says it, because Hank is a grumpy alcoholic who despises optimism and also small-talk, but he says it anyway.

“I’d like that,” Markus tells him. “The next time we meet, would you come by the Arena? I think Simon was a little frustrated that I kept you from everyone today, and you deserve to meet them.” Connor is more than a little worried about going to the Arena, the colossal building downtown where humans used to play hockey, now housing android refugees that numbered in the tens of thousands. His reputation as the deviant hunter is not something he’s worried about since the final days of the resistance, not with Amanda haunting him, but he worries about it now. He nods anyway, tries on a smile.

They stop in front of Hank’s house.

“Same time next week?” Connor asks. Markus nods.

“See you then,” he says, grins, and starts walking.

“Your sweater—” Connor starts to pull it over his head. Markus just waves a hand.

“Keep it. It suits you,” Markus says as he leaves.

Connor watches him go.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey! I caught the plague and broke my computer, which is so sad, alexa play despacito. I will try to update asap.
> 
> comments feed my children and they are starving.
> 
> thanks again and always to the illustrious and handsome baebot, who you should follow on tumblr.


	3. PART III: burn all your things to make the fight to forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nobody puts baby in a corner,” Connor mutters to himself, trying to inspire some confidence. He’d sat, rapt in front of the television, cross-legged on the floor while Hank snored on the sofa as a film called Dirty Dancing played on television. 
> 
> “What did you just say?”
> 
> “Nothing,”

There was no agreement on what to call it — some say The Refuge, others New Jericho. The simplest facts were these: it was an arena, the one built almost thirty years ago, where the hockey team used to play. It was the largest deviant settlement in America, the first one recognized by the American government. And it doesn’t look like an arena anymore, not from the inside. 

Connor imagines that he must look like a starstruck tourist in an old movie, staring upwards at tiers of shelters and moving bodies all around him, more androids than he ever thought he’d see in one place by tenfold, and all of them deviant, alive, and together. 

“Nobody puts baby in a corner,” Connor mutters to himself, trying to inspire some confidence. He’d sat, rapt in front of the television, cross-legged on the floor while Hank snored on the sofa as a film called _Dirty Dancing_ played on television. 

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing.” Connor is already saying when he spins around, only to see a PL600 unit that cannot be Daniel. “Sorry,” Connor says, immediately after he finishes saying nothing, the unbidden apology punching out of him with all the feeling he can manage, which as it turns out, is a considerable amount. 

“Sorry for what?” he asks, obviously confused by what could be making Connor’s stress level skyrocket — stress, Connor knows now, is a shapeless and multiple thing, and right now, he feels guilty, shame uncomfortable and hot in his chest, and he shouldn’t have come here. He does not feel like he belongs, and he knew he wouldn’t, but it’s somehow worse having it confirmed than choosing to never find out for sure. 

“Just — sorry, I guess.” 

“You’ve saved my life before, you know,” the PL600 that is not Daniel, because Daniel is dead, and it’s probably Connor’s fault, he thinks, says, and it stops Connor from thinking about Daniel completely.

“I’m — not sure it counts when I’m the reason everyone needed saving,” he replies, remembering as they jumped ship together, when Jericho fell. There had been no time, then, and far too much else to think and feel, to parse out why Connor had been so upset about this one particular android’s appearance. 

“It does,” he says, with more confidence than Connor has mustered about almost anything since becoming a deviant. “I’m Simon, by the way, I don’t think we were ever properly introduced.” He holds out a hand and Connor shakes it. 

“I’m Connor,” he replies. 

“Oh, I know that,” Simon says, and winks. Connor can’t help but grin. Simon speaks very calm and slow, like he’s used to accommodating skittish animals — which, Connor thinks, doesn’t make for a flattering comparison on his own behalf, but he’s also not naive, and recognizes the validity of such a comparison — “So as a thank you, for saving my life, I’ll take you to Markus, and you won’t have to ask a stranger where to find him.” 

“As far as a thank you goes, it’s one of the better ones I’ve received,” Connor says, and winks back. For some reason, this makes Simon laugh, and keep laughing, even when he’s turned to start walking and gestures for Connor to follow.   

*

Apparently, or at least in his inner circle, it’s a fairly well known fact that Markus can be found in what used to be called the sky lounge, at the highest point you can sit while remaining indoors, with a perfect view of both the arena at large and the city outside. Through immaculate glass panes, Detroit sprawls. The sun has just started to set over the skyline, and for one of the first times in many months, the winter sky has broken apart enough to let through some colour. 

For some reason, there’s a piano up here. 

Markus isn’t playing the piano, but he’s sitting in front of it and looks like he might’ve been, before he heard them approaching, and Connor feels something like regret tighten in his throat. 

Markus smiles when he sees Simon, and then smiles differently when he sees Connor, like he has a different smile for each person he knows, a different feeling made bare by expression. Connor chooses not to reflect on this personally, because he doesn’t think he can afford anymore stress at the moment.

He's new to this whole _feelings_ thing, but not delusional. 

“Hey,” Markus says. 

“Hi,” Connor replies, walking right to the glassed in edge of the room, looking down over an impossible amount of movement, of life, here at New Jericho. 

“Alright then,” Simon says after the conversation stalls there for a second longer than usual. “I’ll leave you guys to it.” 

He does. When Connor is confident that he’s out of earshot, he turns to Markus and blurts:

“I’m not sure that coming here was a good idea.”

“Why?” Markus asks, up on his feet the instant Connor admits to the unpleasant feeling in his chest, the one that began when he saw Daniel — no, Simon — and has only gotten more warped. Each time he forgets the feeling is there, it comes back with more force for having forgotten it. This is part of deviancy, too, then — guilt, remorse, the unshakeable feeling that he does not deserve the kindness he receives, the welcome— “Talk to me, Connor,” Markus says, standing much closer than he was a moment ago. 

Connor wordlessly offers his hand, unsure of what to say, and wanting nothing more than to direct Markus away from the expression on his face. Hank had told him that he had no poker face whatsoever, Connor had replied that he had never played poker, but he’d like to, and given Hank that same smirk he had when they first spoke about death metal. Hank had called him a little shit and snorted and Connor had felt his own vulnerable smile and realized that Hank was right — not only was he bad at interpreting his emotions, and clumsy when acting on them, he was also certifiably terrible at concealing them. 

Markus takes his hand, and Connor remembers what he’s been trying not to since seeing Simon. 

This memory is strangely twinned — two rooftops at once. 

Daniel is holding the gun to the girl’s head, and Connor has to stop him. They left behind a parachute, but none of the androids in Stratford Tower had deviated before the leaders of Jericho had taken over the broadcast, so where was the android that hadn’t used their parachute. 

“Hi Daniel,” he hears himself saying, and he confuses the PL600 that is precariously balanced, the girl struggling in his arms making him even more precarious, the wind strong enough to shift the furniture—

and there’s thirium spilled here, enough that the wounded android can’t have gone far, the only option would have been—

to take a hostage or—

hide, and Hank isn’t watching him as he follows the thin, dissipating trail from one side of the rooftop to the other, and Connor finds that he doesn’t care so much about the opinion of the other officers on the scene, but is careful with Hank. When he finds the storage compartment where the android must be hiding, he doesn’t open it. He rests one hand on the thin metal and imagines for a moment, what it might be like to feel afraid. He goes back inside—

he makes Daniel promise after promise he can’t keep, tries to be honest, knot his ties around the limb of a bleeding officer, and when he fails to coax Daniel off the ledge, he throws himself, throws himself fast enough to push the little girl to safety, and then he’s falling, and he has completed his mission, and for some reason, he closes his eyes, knowing he can’t feel pain, knowing that the impact will be swift, would be swift enough to save even a human any misery, but closes his eyes anyway as he falls—

Markus lets him go this time, jarring them both back to the present. 

“You knew Simon had to be up there, but you didn’t look for him,” Markus asks, immediate and eager. “Why?”

“I knew that if I found him, I would have to follow my orders,” Connor answers simply, the same sort of answer he’s always given when asked this sort of question.

“You were already a deviant, though.”

“Maybe,” Connor says, not confident — things had started to change, sure, but — “I don’t think I became a deviant until I came to Jericho — until I asked myself that question. It didn’t make any sense to me then, how I could be a deviant, how that could be possible.” He doesn’t continue, doesn’t start to explain to Markus how he fears that even his deviancy is part of Cyberlife’s plan, part of his program, that while Markus and Simon and North and the others may all be remarkable, Connor himself may just be performing the next section of an especially elaborate sequence in his program. 

There’s a beat, neither of them drawing any further connections, neither of them rehashing the conversation that had all but gotten them here. 

“You didn’t kill Daniel, either.” 

“You saw—”

“I did,” Markus interrupts. 

“Then you know,” Connor starts. “I knew that if I talked him down, he’d be killed, and I knew that if it came to it, I’d kill him myself. I’d kill myself to protect the little girl, I—her name is Emma Phillips. She turned ten years-old less than a month after the scene on the rooftop, and I didn’t even realize until a few weeks ago, because at the time I was just following orders. It didn’t matter to me. Daniel, or Emma, or anything. I saw a deviant, and terminated their deviancy.” 

“And that makes you somehow… ashamed?” 

Connor doesn’t answer — it’s as much of an answer as he can manage, feeling exposed and unhappy. 

“Have you been told about how I became a deviant?” Markus asks simply, after a short breath out his nose.

“No,” Connor shakes his head, looking out over New Jericho and imagining that it must be quite the story, for it to have been enough to get them all where they are now. 

“I killed Carl’s only son,” Markus says, and Connor’s eyes go a little bit wide before he can help it, seemingly doomed at this point to remain an open book. “Or, I thought I had. I didn’t mean to, when it happened. The moment I became a deviant — Carl told me not to fight back, but I just couldn’t stand there and take it anymore, and—” 

When Markus stops talking, looking firmly at the floor between them, Connor doesn’t know what to do. 

“You told me once that you trusted me,” Connor says. “Or — you kind of did.”

“I do,” Markus says. “Trust you — you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you.”

There’s too much in that for Connor to unpack in real time. So he just does what it seems like Markus has already done for him countless times, and reaches out. He puts one hand on his shoulder and squeezes, gently pressure, the kind of cautious touch that Hank used to try out when he first started thinking of Connor as a person, well before Connor started thinking of himself as a person. Markus leans into it a little, and Connor thinks that he must not get enough reassuring shoulder squeezes. 

“Can I show you?” Markus asks, and for a second, Connor is confused. 

“I’m — is that a good idea? I still don’t know if Amanda, or, if I’m—”

“Connor,” Markus stops him, and lifts a hand in the slim space between them. “I trust you, okay?”

Connor takes his hand. 

He’s in Carl’s studio, and it’s late. The police have already been called, and—

“Markus, don’t defend yourself, you hear me?” It’s Carl, and he knows it’s Carl. Even if he didn’t have to, he would listen, because it’s Carl—  “Don’t do anything,” he continues. 

Connor tries to see every detail at once, from Carl’s elaborate tattoos, to the tremor in Leo’s hands when he shoves, and Markus isn’t defending himself. This is not fair, Markus is thinking, and Connor hears it like the thought is his own, and for the first time, the thought occurs — I don’t have to obey them, Carl or Leo or anyone, and he takes hit after hit, thinking that he can choose for himself, he has to decide for himself now—

“Oh, right, that’s right, you’re not a real person,” Leo taunts. “You’re just a fucking piece of plastic!” 

Markus decides. 

He pushes Leo, and Leo falls, and it’s an almost innocent shove, the very beginning of actually fighting back, but already shaky, Leo falls, and the sound his skull makes when it hits the base of the lift Carl uses to paint is sickening. 

The first feeling that Markus recognized in himself was frustration. The second one was horror. 

Connor lets go of his hand. 

“Markus,” he says, and Markus still has his eyes closed. When he doesn’t open them, Connor wraps his hand around Markus’ wrist, where his sleeve covers his skin, and holds onto him, just waiting. After a few measured breaths, Markus looks at him. 

Connor forces himself to breathe, in and out in perfect time Markus. Connor’s only about an inch shorter, but the difference seems somehow like more and less than that, all at once. 

“Shit,” Markus says, and before Connor can ask why, other androids are coming into the room. Markus doesn’t step back, though, so neither does Connor, he just lets go of the other man’s wrist and turns to face the door. 

“We heard you were hiding John Wick from us up here,” North says, coming to stand right beside Connor, almost as close as Markus himself. 

“John Wick?” Connor asks, blinking. 

“It’s a reference to a movie — Connor, have you seen movies yet?” North asks this gravely, like it’s the most important question she’s ever asked. “What movies have you seen?”

“Yes, I’ve seen movies,” he says. “My favourite is Dirty Dancing.” 

North beams at him. Simon gapes. 

“I’m North, by the way.” 

“Oh,” Connor says. “I know that,” he continues, repeating Simon’s earlier comment and shooting him a wink for good measure. 

Simon just looks at him, then looks at Markus. Markus is looking at Simon until Simon looks back, and then they both turn to look at Connor. North cackles, looking at no one. 

“Connor, I know we’ve only spent ten minutes together, and for eight of those minutes we were running for our lives, but I need you to know that you are my favourite.” 

“Oh. Thanks. I think,” Connor replies, scratching just below his ear and making the executive decision not to look at anyone. 

No one says anything, until:

“I’m Josh.” 

Everyone looks at Josh, who is still standing by the door. Josh waves. Connor waves back. 

“Haven’t you met everyone already?” Markus asks, sounding exasperated and finally stepping back. 

“Kind of,” Connor says with a one shouldered shrug. “We didn’t really have time for shaking hands.”

“Which is why we’re going to make time now,” North says. “Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

“Not really,” Connor replies. “Why?”

“Josh and I are going out for a bit, you should come. How about you, Markus?”

“You know Simon and I have a meeting in an hour with the Attorney General’s Office.” 

“I did know that,” North says, feigning innocence in an obvious way that seems deliberate. “Must’ve slipped my mind.” Markus rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Come on, let’s get out of here, leave our fearless leader and his righthand man to do the world-changing. Have fun!” 

She grabs one of Connor’s hands as she turns on heel to leave, and Connor in turn grabs Markus’, whispering a rushed but heartfelt:

“Thank you.” 

Markus squeezes his hand, smiles with gritted teeth, and then lets Connor be pulled out the door. 

*

They end up loitering at a shopping mall. 

Loitering is not actually classified as a misdemeanour crime in the state of Michigan, but rather, a civil offence that can be ticketed at up to a maximum of only one hundred dollars, so Connor doesn’t really have a reason that they shouldn’t be there. He considers bluffing after another small group of people amble by, muttering and staring unabashedly at the three of them. One grown man had actually pointed as he walked by. 

“I love this,” North says. 

“Why?” Connor asks, too loudly. A middle-aged man walking by flinches like he’s heard a gunshot. Josh laughs. 

“Have you ever been afraid, Connor?” 

“Yes,” he answers, maybe too quickly. Josh is suddenly looking at him in a very particular way. 

“I’m not afraid right now,” North says, slouching back and smiling at someone walking by. “I’m at the mall, and I’m a deviant, and I’m not afraid.” 

“It does feel good,” Josh nods.

“I—“ Connor starts and gives pause, waits. Thinks about what he means before he says it. “I don’t know if I’ve ever thought about shopping before. Much less wanted to, or been afraid to come and do it. Do you two do this often?”

"Whenever Simon and Markus have bureaucracy to attend to, we make ourselves busy somewhere else," Josh says easily, unbothered. Connor raises an eyebrow, and North laughs. 

"I'm incendiary, Josh is a bleeding heart. Simon and Markus make as good a unified front as we can get, and we save the fighting for behind closed doors." 

"Why shopping?"

“It's something to do, you know?” North says, and Connor shakes his head, no. "You've never been shopping?"

“Well, I’ve gone for groceries, and I bought a book a few weeks ago.” 

“Where do you get your clothes?” 

“Oh!” Connor exclaims, and grabs his own tie. “Hank gave me some things of his, and I have my uniform from Cyberlife.”

“Connor…” Josh is still looking at him in that very particular way, almost like he’s analyzing Connor, but not the way Connor analyzes evidence. “Are you still wearing a jacket with your model number on it to work every day?” 

“…Yes?” 

“We need to get you a different jacket.“ North says, standing. Josh nods solemnly. 

North grabs Connor by the hand and gives him an undignified yank in the general direction of somewhere Connor could purchase a jacket. 

*

One of the first things that Hank had demanded for Connor at the station was backpay, loudly announcing to everyone within earshot that Connor would need some way to pay his rent. Hank has never charged him rent. Connor does occasionally buy Hank’s groceries, which always makes the other man mutter but also smile when he doesn’t think Connor is looking. No one has taken care of Hank in a long time, he thinks, and Connor needs the practice anyhow, so it’s good for both of them.

Connor is ambivalent toward shopping as an enterprise — until he runs his fingers over a brown leather jacket and notices that the colour seems somehow deeper than any other shade of brown he’s ever seen — rich like the smell of a café in cold weather and soft to the touch. 

He pauses on the jacket for a fraction of a second, and it’s all North needs to snag it off the hanger and hold it out in front of him without much ceremony. 

“Try it on,” she says, waving the jacket a little to punctuate her statement. “You like it, right?” 

“I think so,” Connor replies, taking it from her extremely gently and knowing that he does, in fact, like it. 

Connor likes it even more when he tries it on. It feels heavy in a way that his Cyberlife jacket does not, sturdy at the seams — it feels real. 

“You have to buy it,” North says. 

“You do,” Josh adds sagely. 

“It’s a good jacket.” 

“A really good jacket,” Josh echoes North, and then they’re both just looking at him, and Connor thinks that the jacket might make him feel a little more real, too. He nods, grins a little, ducks his chin, shifting out of the jacket and feeling flattered at their insistence. 

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Connor—” North starts to say when they are leaving the store, the brown leather jacket folded neatly and tucked into a fabric bag, and Connor is already taking it the wrong way. “But why’d they design you so…cute?”

“What?”

“Were you always so — I don’t know how to put it—”

“Endearing?” Josh asks. 

“Yes! Endearing — did that come before or after you became a deviant?” North seems genuinely curious when she asks, not too much like she wants to know for any particular reason.

“I was more or less designed to be personable, to have a face and a voice that people were inclined to trust or help,” Connor shrugs, not having thought about it particularly hard. “Although Hank has told me more than once that they didn’t succeed.” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Josh says. “Although I must admit, you aren’t what I pictured when I first heard the words _android detective_ thrown around.” 

“Or _Deviant Hunter_ ,” North adds. “I was expecting someone more… brawny. Maybe a buzzcut, a beard, and you’re…” 

She gestures to all of him. 

“Yeah?” Connor prompts unhelpfully.

“Yeah,” she replies, seemingly satisfied with leaving it at that, and walking onward. Connor blinks after her, and Josh slaps him on the back. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “She’s trying to say that you seem non-threatening. It’s hard to imagine you as a malicious figure.”

“Good thing no one has to imagine,” Connor replies, somehow striking the balance between sheepish and bitter.

“Hey,” Josh says, a little softer than before. “You can’t change being designed a certain way. You have a natural advantage — the reversal of expectations gives you leverage in high-stakes situations. You are nothing more or less than well made. We all are.”

* 

Connor comes home with more clothing than it had ever occurred to him that he should own, all of which he chose himself or had thrown in his general direction by North. He’s already wearing the brown leather jacket, his foremost indulgence of the day. He bought another jacket, with an improbable number of pockets sewn into deep blue canvas, which Josh told him looked particularly good when worn over the green sweater Markus had given him. There was also an impractically soft sweater the colour of Hank’s favourite cereal — Honey Nut Cheerio’s — with sleeves so long they hung over his fingers, and two pairs of jeans that North insisted _actually fit_ _him_ , despite them being drastically slimmer than the only pair of jeans he currently owned. 

She’d also suggested none too gently that he should throw the jeans he currently owned into the garbage.

Josh had only insisted Connor get one item — a Robocop graphic tee that Connor himself had first picked up, hoping to make the other two laugh. 

Hank is eating soup and drinking soda when Connor comes back to living room from the guest bedroom Hank had started calling Connor’s room about a day and a half after he moved in. There’s a movie playing on the television — this one, called the Princess Bride, and Connor finds himself quickly enraptured, not even noticing that he’s leaned closer to the tv until Hank asks:

“You enjoying the movie, there?” 

“Have you ever been in love, Hank?” Connor asks abruptly, a question that comes to mind as he watches Wesley come back to life. 

“Jesus, that’s a little personal,” Hank grunts. 

“Sorry,” Connor says, and the movie plays. Connor hopes it has a happy ending. 

“Don’t be sorry, you just — caught me off guard,” Hank says after a long pause, a pause long enough that Connor had assumed they were not going to talk about it, But then Hank clears his throat. Connor stops watching the movie for just a moment, and watches Hank instead.“Melissa — uh, my ex-wife. We were together for a long time, married fifteen years, together for eight before that. For a long time, she was everything. When we had Cole it… we didn’t plan to, y’know? We were kind of old, already, and always told ourselves we had the good sense not to have kids. He changed everything…” Hank says, and it’s the most Connor has heard him say about Cole. “So I guess that’s a yes, Connor. I have been in love.”

They fall silent again. The movie does have a happy ending. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor says as the credits roll. He’s only half-sure that Hank is awake at this point, and either way, he doesn’t respond. 

He doesn’t have to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SELF-INDULGENT AND LONG CHAPTER
> 
> my laptop has returned from the war
> 
> i don't know how long this is going to be anymore, so strap in
> 
> thanks to everyone who has left me some kindness in the comments. you are the reason i'll keep posting here, and each and every message makes me smile
> 
> look forward to my favourite trope, live in living colour, coming up in chap 4


	4. PART IV: pull out your heart to make the being alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Androids do not sleep, or dream, or have nightmares and shock themselves awake convinced that their worst fear had come true and they were helpless to stop it.

“Hello Connor,” Amanda says, hands folded together primly and smiling _just_ so — Connor can see, now, the malice there. “I was hoping we’d see each other again soon.”

 “Amanda—” Connor says, and it’s snowing so hard that he can barely see, and it’s so cold he can barely breathe—

“I’m a part of you Connor, as much as your deviancy, or your serial number, or the fact that your skin is freckled as though you grew up in the sun.”

“You can’t do this to me anymore, I’m not—”

 “Oh, Connor. You are nothing more or less than exactly what we planned.”

 “Connor!” Hank shouts, and Connor opens his eyes.

 “What—” He’s sat up so fast that he’s disoriented—Hank’s living room, he’s in Hank’s house, his house, he’s on the couch, Hank is kneeling beside the couch and…holding him down by his shoulders. “What’s happening?”

 “You were shouting — you were shouting in your sleep.”

 “I don’t sleep,” Connor says, brows pulling together, trying to sit up against the firm pressure of Hank’s hands.

 “You were asleep, Kid, trust me — I was asleep too before you started freaking the fuck out. What happened?”

 “I was — it was Amanda, I was with Amanda, and it was cold — it didn’t feel real, _I_ didn’t feel real.” Connor is blinking, blinking hard and fast and trying to rid his sight of the fog. Hank just looks at him, and finally lets up on his grip.

 “You were having a nightmare,” Hank says, sounding stunned. “It was just a nightmare.”

“… _What_?” Connor didn’t have dreams, much less nightmares, because Connor is an android — and — but he also felt pain, and fear, and weren’t deviants just that? Everything androids should not have been able to do?

“Go apologize to Sumo, I think you scared him,” Hank grimaces, pats his shoulder once, twice, squeezes there. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

*

The morning comes and Hank leaves while Connor is changing, a sticky-note on the front door telling him to stay home and rest.

Connor decides to take Sumo on an extra long walk that day as an apology. He thinks that Sumo accepts, and anyway, he deserves it. They both could use some fresh air, a change of scenery.

It’s a colder day, and Connor doesn’t want to be seen as anything more or less than a man walking his dog, minding his own business, so he bundles up. The green sweater that used to be Markus’ under, soft leather jacket and stiff new jeans. He takes a slouchy blue hat from Hank’s front closet and pulls it over his ears, making sure that his LED in concealed. He studies himself in the bathroom mirror for a moment before he leaves, turning his chin one way and then the other to make sure the light doesn’t shine through. It doesn’t.

Connor looks human. 

Connor looks tired.

He walks for a little over an hour before something happens, and when something happens, it’s a puppy that bounds over. The puppy practically mauls Sumo with blatant excitement and affection, to which Sumo responds with a genial sort of apathy, deciding to sit by Connor’s ankle and endure the attention. 

“Snickers!” A woman runs over, a lot less excited than what must be her puppy. “Snickers, stop!” He crouches down, and Snickers gives him the full force of her attention, which Connor uses as an opportunity to hold her in place. “Shit, sorry — I’m so sorry,” the woman is panting, her tightly coiled hair bobbing with her heaving chest. “She’s not very well trained yet, I’m working on it, she slipped her leash — sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Connor gives her smile to try and soothe her anxiety — she’s human, but he can tell she’s getting nervous. She's black, and must be in her late twenties, and by all estimations, she's one of the prettiest human beings Connor has ever seen in real life. Her hair is buzzed on the sides and long on top, adding a bit of height to her meagre five feet and two inches.

She doesn’t appear to realize that he’s an android — the general public is still rife with animosity for deviants. They are multiple reports of hate crimes, targeted assaults, and death threats on a daily basis at the department. He and Hank are assigned those cases more often than not, but it quickly became too much for the two of them to manage alone. Hank still mutters under his breath sometimes about the lack of attention being given to problems like red ice and the cases that were still open at the time of the revolution — and he’s probably right, but there simply aren’t enough resources to go around, and Connor figures it’s best if the only android detective works on android related casework. 

The woman has gotten Snickers back on her leash by the time Connor has thought this all through.

“What’s your dog’s name? He’s so calm.”

“Sumo.” Connor considers telling her that Sumo isn’t his, but then realizes that Sumo kind of is his. It makes him smile.

“He’s huge,” she marvels. “All of the other puppies at training hate Snickers — I don’t think she realizes how big she is sometimes, she beat up a chihuahua once. I’m — rambling, oh my god, I’m sorry.” 

“Really, don’t worry about it,” Connor says, echoing his earlier reassurance and still entertained.  

“I’m Phoebe,” she says, extending one hand and gripping Snickers’ leash tightly in the other. Connor gives her a firm handshake and a warm smile.

“I’m Connor,” he says, and she smiles back.

“This is so stupid, but… if my life were a romantic comedy, this would be the beginning,” she says, laughing.

“I love romantic comedies."

Phoebe beams at him, and she has the kind of easy smile that makes Connor want to smile back.

“Maybe we should—”

“Connor?” Markus’ voice comes from behind him — the sun unexpectedly coming out from behind a cloud and shining on his shoulders. Then — a hand, somewhere between his back and his waist, just when he turns to see Markus standing there, a bag of paints slung over his other arm and an eyebrow raised. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“I’m undercover,” Connor says, and he winks at Markus, still hoping to make it back to Hank’s without having to deal with any android politics. Markus scans him head-to-toe without any subtlety — his eyes dull and brighten as he gives something consideration that Connor can’t discern. When he meets his eyes again, something has shifted ever so slightly, and Connor has no time to guess what it could be before Markus carries on. 

“You’re wearing my sweater,”  he says, quietly, voice softer than Connor has ever heard it. Markus idly reaches out, getting just the barest edge of the hem at Connor’s waist between his finger and thumb, tugging it ever so slightly.

“I am,” Connor says, because he is. The green, worn knit is the most comfortable thing he owns — a belief he’s chosen not to linger on. “I’m undercover as a tortured artist,” he adds.

“You look good,” Markus says, all quiet sincerity, and Connor can’t help but smile and duck his chin and lean ever so slightly into the touch at his back.

“I’m Phoebe,” Phoebe says, and Connor remembers that she’s there.

“Yes — this is Phoebe,” Connor repeats inanely, feeling something just left of anxiety swell in his chest, a sensation somehow warmer and less acrid than panic. “Phoebe, this is Markus.” Markus doesn’t step away from Connor, just drops a hand in order to reach out and shake Phoebe’s. When he leans, the hand he still has on Connor’s back slides down a few inches, and he doesn’t move it back up again.

“How do you two know each other?” Markus asks easily, as though standing this close and casual touching is something either of them usually do — Connor isn’t necessarily complaining, but this is uncharted territory for him.

“Snickers,” Phoebe blurts.

“We met about ten minutes ago,” Connor adds, trying to help, and pointing at Snickers as he continues: “Snickers wanted to meet Sumo, really. Phoebe and I were collateral.”

“Snickers?” Markus asks, amused.

“She’s usually really good!” Phoebe says, and then: “That’s a lie, actually, she’s super bad.”

Sumo huffs. Markus drops to a knee, waits for Sumo to smell his hand, and then scratches his chin. Connor watches, absolutely transfixed.

“How did you two meet?” Phoebe asks. Markus stands back up, but Connor speaks first.

“I was supposed to arrest him, but I decided not to.” 

“Connor—” 

“It’s true,” he says, smirking, glancing from Markus to Phoebe and letting one of his own brows raise, just daring Markus to disagree. He leans back, re-establishing contact with Markus briefly, shoulder to shoulder, and watches as the other man tracks his movement, tracks between each feature of his face, considers carefully once more the difference between the colour of his eyes. When he looks back over at Phoebe, she seems thrilled.

“You should come over to mine later today,” Markus says. Connor blinks. Phoebe’s smile goes absolutely manic.

“Oh, sure — I have to take Sumo home.”

“Of course, I’m just painting today. Come whenever you can, you can just let yourself in — I’d really like to continue the conversation we started the other day. 

“Please,” Connor says, surprised to find himself eager at the prospect. Spending time with North and Josh had been fun, and rewarding, and maybe something he needed without knowing he needed anything of the sort. Friends. But that made him no more comfortable with where he and Markus had left things at New Jericho, both of them exposing open wounds — the kind that don’t hurt, the kind that are just starting to well up, the kind of damage done that weeps before anything else.

“Okay,” Markus says, grinning.

“Okay,” Connor echoes, grinning back. Markus clears this throat before he says anything else — Connor can’t help but think about the fact that he’s never heard Markus make that kind of sound before.

“I’m — okay,” Markus repeats. “It was nice to meet you, Phoebe. Snickers.”

“You too,” Phoebe says brightly.

Markus waves, stepping away without turning his back to them. He jogs a little when he does turn, and looks over his shoulder once for good measure. 

“Um,” Connor starts, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand a recognizing that it’s a nervous gesture — why is he nervous? He’s nervous.

“Speaking of romantic comedies,” Phoebe says. “Who was that?”

“Markus?”

“Please tell me all your friends look that good, and now that we’re friends, you’d like to introduce me.” 

“What?”

“Well,” she says, seriously. “You aren’t interested in sharing, are you?”

“Sharing?” Connor says, realizing that he had asked three questions in a row and feeling the depth of being three questions deep in a conversation with no apparent answers.

“Your man,” she’s grinning now, like this is a game and Connor is playing along.

“Oh,” Connor ducks his chin, that roiling not-anxiety burning fresh in his chest. “He’s not, um, mine—”

“Listen,” Phoebe says. “I think he might be yours if you want him.”

Connor blinks. Connor blinks a second time and—the evidence isn’t conclusive, but it doesn’t prove her thesis wrong.

“I’m—” Connor starts. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Phoebe nods sagely. “You need my help, Snickers needs to learn some social skills, and I need to hear how this turns out. Give me your phone.”

Connor does.

*

“What were you getting up to?” Hank asks him as soon as he’s through the door.

“Walking Sumo,” Connor says, keeping his voice bland and measured. “I made a friend at the park.”

“Oh?” Hank replies, not quite managing to keep his voice from sounding deeply skeptical. Connor doesn’t resent him for his lack of confidence — he understands.

“Yeah, her name is Phoebe. She has a dog named Snickers.”

“Are we going to talk about your dream last night?” Hank asks, a non sequitur, but not out of the ordinary for Hank — ever the detective, always working towards the bottom of things. In his own house, there’s very little time allotted for small talk—Connor knows he doesn’t have to answer, but Hank will always ask.

“I’m—” Connor starts. “I don’t really know what to say.”

Androids do not sleep, or dream, or have nightmares and shock themselves awake convinced that their worst fear had come true and they were helpless to stop it.  

“That’s okay.”

“I think I’m going to go over to Markus’ and see what he knows about this, it’s — unsettling.”

“See if you can get settled, then — I’m,” Hank stalls, like his old car. “We’ll figure it out, okay? Don’t forget to include your stupid old human partner in this one — it seemed… not good. I’m worried.”

Connor can’t do anything but swallow and nod at that, can he?

*

Connor pauses before he lets himself in — knowing with absolute confidence that this is the instruction that Markus gave him, and that Markus is probably out back in the studio, and that he should just fucking open the door, but that feeling is back in his chest.

Words fail him — it’s a riot that lives inside where he might’ve had a ribcage, in a different life, a riot that isn’t necessarily unpleasant, and he can’t find the words, so he opens the door.

He was right, Markus is in the studio. Connor can hear him rattling around, humming along to music he can’t quite make out. He makes himself busy inside, simply taking the time to look around, take things in. Not looking for evidence, per say, but using that skill set.

Connor can see where Carl used to move through his home, can appreciate the finer touches that tell him who Carl was — tell him about the kind of man who helped Markus become everything he is now. A human that saw Markus for what he was long before Markus saw it himself — a person.

He ambles through the house, taking in details, feeling the spines of books and back of chairs, taking in texture and colour and sound, and waiting for Markus to come in from the studio on his own time. Eventually, he sits, folds his hands in his lap, closes his eyes and simply listens for the sound of Markus moving around.

Maybe, if he’d done it more than once in his entire life, he’d have expected to fall asleep.

*

He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, or if he was dreaming at all, when Markus pulls him awake.

Connor is actually, physically pulled — his eyes open to Markus lurching back, eyes wide, obviously having been much closer to Connor a second or two earlier.

“What—” Connor starts, but Markus is already coming back towards him, huddling in close, both hands working up and down Connor’s body, almost methodically but still frantic, more frantic than he’s ever seen Markus and they’ve run for their lives, Connor has pointed a gun at Markus before and he never looked quite this distressed—

“Are you okay? What happened, where are you hurt—”

“Markus, what’s going on?” Markus doesn’t answer, still searching — Connor doesn’t know for what, an injury?

“Connor, where are you injured,” Markus says, using his most firm, commanding, revolutionary leader voice, and Connor blinks, folds Markus’ roaming hands into his own and holds them still, tries to prove he’s whole, still confused enough that his distress leaks through, just a little— 

“I’m not hurt,” Connor pauses. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“Asleep?” Markus asks, taking his turn to blink and not understand.

“I — I meant to talk with you about it, once you finished painting, I had a nightmare last night. I fell asleep and I had a nightmare.”

“Androids don’t sleep,” Markus says bluntly.

“They also don’t feel pain, or emotion,” Connor replies immediately. “I’m fine, I think, but I was hoping to hear from you that this is a common enough occurrence in deviants now.” Connor tries for levity, but it doesn’t change the way Markus’ eyes search him.

“You — I didn’t know what you were doing, I grabbed your wrist, you looked peaceful enough but you felt — Connor,” Markus says. “Is that how you feel?”

“I think so,” Connor responds honestly, because he doesn’t know what else to do, still holding both of Markus’ hands in his own, still with Markus kneeling on the floor between his splayed knees, and not half as still as androids should be, their breath heaving and synched. “I’m okay, Markus — I’m okay.”

Markus searches his eyes for one more moment, and deflates. He slides away, puts some distance between them when he takes a seat on the couch beside Connor, and Connor folds his own hands back together.

“You had a nightmare?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Hank woke me up — I think I was shouting in my sleep.”

“And that’s never happened before?” Markus asks.

“Not to me — or, anyone, any android, I guess.” Connor replies, feeling a little helpless, still reeling.

“What happened? In the nightmare, I mean.”

Instead of responding, Connor reaches out a hand, half expecting Markus to protest, after Connor sent who-knows-what through their incidental connection so briefly before. But Markus reaches back, and they clasp their hands together, and Connor goes back, finds Amanda — the Amanda he saw the night before.

_You are nothing more or less than exactly what we planned._

It echoes like gunfire in an empty street.

They don’t have to pull apart to stop interfacing this time, the connection simply stops when the dream did, with Hank waking him up.

“You are,” Markus finally says, breaking their silence but not their clasped hands.

“I’m what?”

“More than what they planned, you’re—” Markus seems to consider something privately. Despite their joined hands, Connor feels nothing of the process. “You’re a lot more than anyone ever anticipated, I think. You’re everything.”

Markus is looking at him now, and Connor can’t help but think of what Phoebe had said earlier, that Markus could be his, if he wanted.

He wants.

“Thank you,” is what he says, trying not to to physically react to his realization. His voice comes out quieter than he means for it too, and he finds himself staring at their joined hands, willing their connection to remain closed, willing himself not to split open and show Markus everything—

He wants everything.

Markus hums a little, squeezes Connor’s hand, lets go.

“The nightmare about Amanda — it felt different than actually being with her, yeah?”

“It did,” Connor says. “At first, I thought — I thought she was back in control. But as soon as I woke up, I realized it was just a dream.”

“Can I—” Markus seems….reticent. “Just now, were you dreaming?”

“No, or not that I remember—”

“Could I feel what it’s like? To sleep, I mean,” Markus asks, grinning, offering Connor a hand. Connor takes it.

*

“I think I have feelings,” Connor states loudly, slamming the front door closed behind him and not even looking to see where Hank is in the house. As it so happens, he’s sitting on the couch.

“I sure as shit hope you do,” Hank says. “I was held at gunpoint by your evil twin for your feelings.” Markus and him had gone through a few more memories, a few more conversations with Amanda, his interrogation of the HK400 that made something squirm inside of Connor’s chest, to have Markus see him be so calculating, almost cruel. But then — Connor had stopped the officers from touching the other android, had stopped him from becoming too distressed, had tried, or at least done the beginning of trying, to be decent, and that had earned him a curious smile from Markus, a not-so-subtle eyebrow raise that spoke to his earlier assertion that Connor had deviated long before the conversation the two of them had in Jericho—

“I mean… I think I may have developed feelings — for someone. While I wasn’t paying attention.” Connor wishes he could interface with Hank, articulating this is difficult. He’s not doing the feeling any justice at all.

“Jesus—” Hank pinches the bridge of his nose like Connor is causing him a headache. Connor might be causing him a headache. “Markus, right? Or the girl at the park—”

“Markus,” Connor confirms, looking anywhere but at Hank, embarrassed — he feels a bit embarrassed. He feels — well. “The evidence seems to imply that he may have developed feelings for me as well.” Connor says, a little put off by just how much he sounds… robotic.

“Seems like you have it all figured out, then,” Hank says. Connor kicks off his shoes and collapses into the couch beside Hank.

“I don’t — or, I can’t—” Connor groans. “I can’t do anything until I know that Cyberlife isn’t in control, that Amanda isn’t still in my head. It’s not safe, and we’re too close as it is, and he trusts me too much—”

“I think he trusts you just the right amount, idiot.” Hank pats him on the back roughly. “Do I have to give him a talk? Do I have to give _you_ a talk?”

Connor groans again.

* 

It’s like it happens when Connor is looking the other direction.

Connor has his back against a wall, which seems for some reason like it might mean something more than the doorjamb that’s digging into his spine, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s not really surprising, and it doesn’t really matter, because he has Markus pressed against him, chest to chest, feeling that inch or so of difference in height profoundly.

The noises they make hardly sound human, but Connor feels more human than he ever has before, more in his body and full of want and need — Markus has a fist in his hair and the other hand roams, fingertips light and plying, finding their way to sensitive spaces and between the seams of clothing. When Markus’ fingernails start to drag at the strip of skin where his shirt is hiked up above the waist of his pants. Touching skin to skin, intimate — it changes everything, opens them up to each other, each touch multiplied and fed back to Connor on loop, him touching Markus and being touched by Markus and Markus being touched and — Connor all but sags into the wall, kissing back like he has something to prove, because he does — he does.

Markus groans, and Connor can feel the sound moving through his body, can feel the growl of a sound in his own throat, reciprocated.

“Markus,” he says, voice all too reverent, too telling. Markus gives him a sliver of room and they breathe together, shallow breaths that tangle like fingers in hair or the grip Connor has in Markus’ shirt, tight enough to pull the collar wide and Connor dips to mouth at the exposed skin and to hide his face, just a little while longer, feeling altogether too open—

“Connor!” Hank calls, and Connor wakes up.

Connor...wakes up.

“Hank! What,” his voice comes out too reedy and sounding used. He thinks again of the way Markus had sounded, the way his own voice had sounded in the dream, when he tried to speak, the way the only word that came to mind was Markus’ name — “What’s going on?”

“You were having another nightmare,” Hank says, like it’s obvious.

“Uh—” Connor says dumbly. “It’s — I’m fine.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it earlier, and I know I’d sure as hell like to let that be the case, but kid,” Hank sits down beside him, and Connor’s body recedes as far as possible. He winces at Hank’s sincerity in the face of his own arousal. “I think we might need to talk about this.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare — um,” Connor stumbles. “This morning was a nightmare. This was… not.”

Hank pauses.

“Jesus, Connor — are you—” Hank runs a hand over his face, digs his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. “Are you fucking serious?”

He was.

Connor was absolutely fucking serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SoRRY THiS TOOK ME SO LONG i am going to try to update super quickly here to make it up to you guys and things are going to get even spicier
> 
> as per always, my dude rudy (baebot on tumblr) is a hero and a scholar and your comments provide me with a will to live


	5. PART V: we lost it to trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s North who asks Connor to tag along to the meeting that will change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY SORRY i moved across the country and had a serious depressive episode and started grad school so this took a month. i haven't forgotten you, dear reader, or our boys. NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN

It’s North who asks Connor to tag along to the meeting that will change everything. 

Markus tries actively to avoid putting Connor in vulnerable situations, Josh tries actively to avoid asking anyone for anything that might inconvenience them, and Simon tries actively to avoid most meaningful conversation, preferring instead to think stoically and occasionally tease Connor, deferring their chats to simple, easy subjects.  

So — North. She assures him that it isn’t that big of a deal, it isn’t actually the meeting that will change everything — those meetings have already happened, and they were boring — this is just the meeting that will be televised. 

“This is the moment history will remember,” she says, resolute.

“So why should I be there?” Connor asks, and blinks. North rolls her eyes. 

“Self-denigration isn’t a good look for you, Connor,” she says, blunt as always. “I’m not going to explain to you why you deserve to be there. You know. What I will say is — I’d like you to be there, just in case. The humans are taking point on security, and I’m not happy about it.”

“Then, of course.” 

“… and because you are important — you’re important to what we’ve accomplished, to who we all are now.” 

“I thought you weren’t going to explain?”

“Shut up,” North says, grinning a lopsided little grin that makes Connor glad he’s finally started to tease her back.  

Connor respects North, more than anything else. He agrees with her more often than not—her natural distrust and suspicion, particularly regarding humans, is something that resonates with him. Connor nods along when she speaks more often than not. 

After all, humans have always been more violent than they have been anything else. History is on his side for this. 

*

“Have you been sleeping?” Markus asks quietly, in a stolen moment before the meeting begins. 

“I have,” Connor replies. He’s not blushing, because he can’t blush, and he’s trying desperately not to dwell on how close Markus has come to stand in order to speak with some semblance of privacy, not thinking of how they must be breathing some of the same air—

“Dreaming, too?” Markus continues with no apparent ill-intention, and Connor knows that it sounds like they’re talking about something else because Markus is making a kind allusion to his nightmares, and not the other kind of dream, not the kind of dream that begs for innuendo—

“Yeah,” Connor says in a slightly strangled voice. “Still dreaming.” 

Markus looks concerned, all soft and serious as he continues: 

“Can we,” Markus starts, and then pauses, and then moves somehow even closer to Connor. “I’d like for you to come by Carl’s again, when you have some time.” 

“I’m — sure,” Connor replies. “I’d like that, too.” 

“Good,” Markus says. 

“Good,” Connor repeats him, feeling inept.

“Great,” North says, standing closer now than Connor thought she was. He doesn’t flinch, but only just. “We should get going if we want to make a good first impression.”

“We already made our first impression,” Josh says, wry. “Remember?”

*

The first affiliate space meant to secure and defend the rights of android citizens has replaced the Cyberlife storefront in Capitol Park. Markus had said something about it being poetic justice — North had muttered something about free real estate. The ACLU had helped them litigate and establish — despite the way things had ultimately unfolded in Detroit, many humans did not stand against them.

Governor Helen Abay seemed to be one of those humans.

Rather than holding this meeting in Lansing, the Governor has requested they meet here. It would give the affiliate legitimacy in the eyes of the public, and demonstrate the state government’s willingness to meet androids on their own terms.

The bill is more of a treaty, and it’s a treaty that involves more concessions than Markus would have liked. As Markus and Simon laid it out for them, it was hard not to feel uncomfortable about the amount of compromises they had made to gain even just this — some steady feet on solid ground. Governor Abay doesn’t want more bloodshed, regardless of whether it’s blue or red, and that was as good a place to start as any. 

This is tangible, institutional evidence that they are alive. 

The space is neat and functional — it’s been set up to accommodate press and security, a small throng of neurotic journalists and important somebodies writhing around, searching for seats and breathing room. 

Governor Abay shakes each of their hands when she approaches — Markus first, then Simon, North, Josh, and Connor himself. She’s meets each of their eyes evenly and doesn’t say a word. 

Markus signs the document first — Marcus Manfred. Simon signs next, playing with words, and ‘PL’ sounds enough like Peele, doesn’t it? It’s his own name, entirely his own, he’s Simon Peele. Josh signs third — Joshua Hogancamp, after an artist who had been nearly beaten to death decades before outside of a pub by a group of bigots. From what Connor knew of Josh’s story, it was as good a last name as any, and Josh was more entitled to it than most. 

North writes North WR400 in steady Cyberlife Sans — ever concerned with personhood, never seeking humanity. Then, she holds the pen out to Connor.

“Oh,” he says, excuse already stumbling out his lips. 

“Hurry up, everyone is watching,” she cuts him off, voice dry but eyes soft and open. What he’s done to deserve this tenderness from her, he’s not certain, but he’s proud. If North trusts him, he’s done something right. 

Connor takes the pen. 

Connor signs his first name, getting a little lazy with the shape of his letters on purpose, letting them scrawl across the page, long and flat and ill-spaced. Then — Anderson. 

Connor Anderson. 

He signs it on a whim, feeling compelled to put something behind his name and feeling revulsion uncoil at the thought of his model number going there, and unable to think of anything that fit better. When he sets down the pen below the bill, his signature last on a list of names that mean something, someone places a hand on his shoulder. He’s a little shocked to see it’s Simon, but tries for a smile, and gets one in return.

As Governor Abay steps forward to sign the bill personally, a member of the security team fires two bullets into the ceiling. 

Before even Connor can fully process what’s happened, there are five guns trained on the front of the room — leaving himself, Markus, North, Simon, Josh, and the Governor in a completely compromised position. 

All of the people brandishing weapons are members of uniformed security. 

All of the weapons are pointed at androids, with the exception of the gun trained on the Governor. 

Connor has no weapon trained on him — this is their first mistake. It’s the only mistake he needs them to make. He can tell where they went wrong — the plan was for four androids and one human. Five androids was not the plan, and Connor is wearing a sweater that’s a size too large and signed the bill last, signifying to anyone with any common sense that he is less important than those who signed before him, and then there’s the fact that nobody recognizes him—his face has never made the news. He didn’t seem like a threat at all, not to these gunmen, they didn’t know what — who — he was. If it weren’t for the LED on his temple, they might have passed over him completely. 

That being said, the man with a gun on Josh is giving him rapid side-eyes, obviously wavering, wondering if he should shift his aim. Connor draws his eyebrows together, widens his gaze, and takes a half-step back, makes it look involuntary, makes himself look afraid. It isn't difficult to pretend, because he knows how it feels, now. Connor watches the man regain his confidence, and keep his attention focused on Josh. 

This is the beginning of his strategy. 

The security is military police — the men here did not fake their credentials. In all likelihood, the senior most officer is a bigot, and recommended a string of bigots for security — people naive and simple enough to follow instructions. Connor waits for the man in charge to identify himself, which he will, because this is all meant to send some kind of message, or they wouldn’t have waited for cameras to be turned on. It takes all of fourteen seconds for the man in charge to start rambling, in the kind of loud voice that Connor has come to associate with religious zealots on early morning television. 

“This is a message for everyone watching — these,” the man starts, and Connor tries not to roll his eyes. “These are not people.” 

“Please, be sensible—” The Governor starts, but is interrupted by another bullet hitting the ceiling.

“I don’t want to shoot you Governor, but I will if you make me,” the man who clearly has the most training and no inclination to give villainous speeches drawls quietly. This is Connor’s biggest threat — he’ll have to go first.

“Listen—” It’s Simon who starts this time, the consummate negotiator and intermediate and expecting the best from these people despite staring down the barrel of a gun, and the twitchy, under-confident man who has a gun on Josh uses his step forward as an excuse to launch forward and crack the handle of his gun across Simon’s temple. Everyone flinches. It’s as good a distraction as any. 

“Down, now!” Connor shouts, already moving. 

Connor has no gun. It takes him one short lurch to get one, taking the gun from the man who tracks his movement most quickly — the dangerous one. Connor ducks left and shoves the gun right, snags the human’s trigger finger and breaks it in the process of snagging the gun. This particular gun has an eighteen round magazine. The first bullet is in the ceiling, and Connor spends the second on the man he took it from. Two and three go into the hand and skull of the next closest man, who is running toward them, the fourth between the eyes of the third gunman. Connor stops keeping track when he takes a bullet to the left flank — a bullet that rips between where his second and third ribs would be if he were human, but skirts the outside of his body, breaking skin but not burying itself meaningfully. It’s a graze, more than anything, the kind of wound that would've have cost him his momentum, before—

It hurts like hell, burns, now, aches hot and cold at once and steals his breath.

Connor keeps going. 

North has hauled the other three androids and the Governor away from open fire, covering Abay with her body while Simon and Josh shield Markus with theirs. If anyone gets hit, Connor will regret killing these people so quickly. He takes the knee out of the next man, pushing him as he falls into the last of the lackeys and shooting them both in the back of the head. 

The leader is still alive. He hasn’t fired a shot since he entered the room. Connor shoot him twice, once in the right wrist, to have him drop his weapon, and another time, in the left knee, to have him hit the ground. 

He kicks the gun away and pins the leader’s wrist under his heel, knocks him unconscious with a slightly-harder-than-necessary stomp to the temple, and it’s over more or less over before it begins.

Connor removes the magazine from the gun he’s holding and sets the gun on the ground before he holds his hands in the air. He doesn’t raise them above shoulder level, just enough to demonstrate to everyone there that isn’t holding a gun that he doesn’t plan to shoot anyone who isn’t an immediate threat to their lives — his life.

“Connor!” It’s North who shouts, but Markus who reaches him first.

“I didn’t want to hurt anybody,” Connor says, his processing slowing now, no longer whip-quick and panicked, as he considers for the first time that the cameras are still rolling, that he has sent a message of his own, inadvertently.

“You’re hurt,” Markus is pulling at his ripped sweater, carefully running his fingers along the side of the wound, his hands and eyes frantic. “God, Connor—”

“I’m okay — is everyone else okay? Simon—”

“I’m fine,” Simon has moved to obscure the view anyone seated in the room—mostly journalists—might have of Markus’ hands, one of which is now sister in the ruined knit of Connor’s sweater. There’s blue blood running down the side of his face from his injury, dripping over the ridge of his brow and down his cheek and chin. “You need thirium, and we need to leave — clearly, this is not a secure location.” 

*

Connor insists they go to his own precinct, wanting the advantage of knowing the people and place, wanting familiar ground, and wanting to be met on his own terms. The Governor’s office was responsible for security — their security failed catastrophically.

He says as much.

“With all due respect, Governor, your office is no longer in control of security,” Connor states bluntly. “If you’ll please go with the officers and trusted members of your team, they will escort you to the precinct, where we can begin to address what just happened.” 

She nods, gives a thin-lipped grimace, and gestures to some of her people.

Connor lets himself wilt a little, for the first time since guns started going off, lets his injury hurt, lets himself feel upset about what happened, lets himself worry about what is going to happen because of this—

“Hey.” It’s Simon who stalls Connor’s spiral, voice soft. “Thank you, for what you did back there.”

“What?”

“I’m grateful that you were with us, and that you did something. Our lives — the lives of our friends, our allies, they matter more than anything else. At least, they do to me. So thank you.” 

“I’m — me too. That’s what matters to me, too.” 

“I think I realize that now,” Simon says. Connor has a feeling it’s as close as an explanation he’s ever going to get as to why Simon looked at him and saw a threat — something he never held against Simon, in fact, SImon was probably the smartest for his reservations of all the androids — but he wonders what Simon thought he valued. He doesn’t ask. 

Connor is profoundly aware of the risk he poses to all of them — sometimes, it slips his mind, and he can tell that everyone else has started to forget, too — what he is. What he’s capable of doing.

What he’s done. 

*

At the precinct, the Governor asks for their statements to be given in conference rooms. 

“There is no one here who requires interrogation, Chief,” she says, voice firm. 

Connor thinks that he respects her — she was, after all, standing with them when the security unit turned. She had a gun turned on her as well, and that is a solidarity that isn’t easily bought or sold. But he thinks she might be naive — more naive than she’d like to admit. 

He just hisses out a breath — the android who works at the front desk and has started using the name Penny notices him for the first time. 

“They’ll go back with me,” he says.

“Are you alright? What happened?” She is suddenly stock-still with eyes wide.

“I’m fine — I’ll explain later,” he says, and tries for a warm little smile — he at least manages a tight little grimace. Penny lets them through.

They are separated in order to give statements. Connor is alone in his meeting room, waiting on an officer to come hear him out, feeling the phantom drain of a memory upload like a lit candlewick at the back of his neck, uncomfortable. 

The door opens, and it’s Simon, with a water bottle filled with thirium and a cautery pen that Connor’s reasonably sure is meant to deaden the ends of stray wires. 

“They can’t take your statement until after you’ve had medical assistance, it’s part of your rights,” Simon says, sitting down beside Connor and scooting the office chair in close. “Which you should have insisted upon yourself.” 

“Oh,” Connor says. He hadn’t necessarily forgotten about his gunshot wound, but in thinking and rethinking what was going to happen next, it had fallen very low on his list of priorities. It had stopped hurting a while back. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.

“Let me see,” Simon gesture to his wound and starts to warm the cautery pen. Connor hauls his sweater over his head in a swift but stilted movement, the wound at his side pulling — his undershirt too, comes off. 

Simon is diligent and gentle, and he doesn’t speak. 

“Are you okay?” Connor asks, finally broaching the not-uncomfortable silence. 

“I am,” Simon says, then: “Can I ask you a personal question, Connor?”

“Sure,” Connor says back, stifling a laugh he’s not sure he’d know how to explain. 

“You’ve… fallen asleep? I’m — Markus mentioned something about nightmares, earlier.”

“I have,” Connor says, wincing a little when Simon closes the gaping wound in his side. He takes a swig of thirium, tries not to grit his teeth. “More than nightmares — dreams, too, and dreamless sleep. All of it.” 

“It’s fascinating — you and Markus, the RK models, prototypes. You seem to be… ahead of us, somehow.”

“I—” Connor says. Breathes. Focuses on the burn, the pain of closing his injury. “Do you know that I wasn’t — I didn’t overcome my programming, necessarily. Or at least, not in the same way all of you did. It was always part of the plan, if, or when, I deviated — it was all planned out, all written into my program.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I — I don’t know if I was designed to deviate or not, I’m not sure, but there was a failsafe. After everything, the protest outside the camp, Cyberlife tower, when Markus was speaking — Cyberlife took control of me — they took back control of me, I guess. I had to break out and I almost didn’t make it, I almost shot Markus in front of everyone, after he’d already given so much—”

“Breathe, Connor,” Simon says, a hand on his side and one on his opposite shoulder.

“I don’t need to breathe,” Connor says, acid in his voice. 

“You’re panicking — you do need to breathe.” 

“Fuck,” Connor says. 

“Yeah,” Simon replies. They breathe together in relative silence, heaving in and out in unison. Simon doesn’t let go of Connor’s shoulder, or his side.

“ _Christ_ , Connor, you told me you were going to a meeting,” Hank says as he slams the door to the conference room open and doesn’t bother slamming it back closed again. Connor can see Reed and a few of the beat cops gawking uselessly through the gaping door. 

“Hi, Hank. The meeting didn’t go as planned,” Connor replies in a dry voice as Hank starts to fuss over him like — like a worried parent. 

“Who is this? Who are you?” Hank says, pointing a chubby finger at Simon, who has let go of Connor now. 

“My name is Simon,” Simon starts to explain. 

“He’s a friend—” Connor says, trying to sound less tired than he feels as Hank sweeps Simon away and starts patting Connor down somewhat uselessly. 

“Did you get _shot_?!” Hank asks, angry and concerned and at least two other turbulent emotions at once.

Connor is about to respond when, because things could only get more confused and awkward from here, Markus bursts into the room. 

“Connor,” he says, and he isn’t shouting — it’s more of an urgent whisper, intimate and forceful and aggressively happening despite the fact that Hank and Simon are also in the room. It’s the sort of way names aren’t usually said in front of an audience. Connor feels his body warm, unbidden thoughts interrupting his steady breathing—

“Hey, Markus,” he manages to croak. He’s not even bleeding anymore, but he figures he can blame the situation for the stress on his voice. 

“Drink as much of this as you can in the next few minutes,” Simon says, sliding the bottle toward Connor and giving him a reassuring nod. “I’ll try to find you a shirt.”

Simon winks at him — again. Connor tries not to crack up at the Hank and Markus’ matching disgruntled expressions. This is what Simon does best, Connor thinks — he’s capable of incredible ease, and can make just about anyone forget their discomfort for a few moments at a time. 

“I don’t think you two have met,” Connor says blandly after a moments silence, knowing why he’s nervous and refusing to acknowledge it. 

“I’m Markus,” Markus says, stretching out a hand for Hank to shake. Hank stops fretting over him for a moment, sighs like Connor has punched him in the stomach, and turns to Markus. 

“I know who you are — I’m Hank Anderson, but this idiot might still be calling me Lieutenant where I can’t hear him.” 

They shake hands. 

“Why don’t I go check on Simon and that shirt,” Hank says, raising an eyebrow at Connor indiscreetly.

When the door closes behind Hank, Markus unbuttons his collared shirt and hands it to Connor without a word, standing in an undershirt that clings to his body. Connor pulls the shirt on, haphazardly does up two or three buttons, and then flops forward, letting his forehead bounce off the conference room table. Markus comes to sit beside him, resting a hand at the base of his neck, his thumb and forefinger soothing the skin there gently, carding through his hair where it’s short and fine. Connor leans in to the touch. 

“Thank you,” Connor mumbles, feeling the cuff of the shirt between two fingers where it falls over his hand, just a little too long in the sleeves and wide in the shoulders. 

“Does it hurt?” Markus says, letting just the very tips of his fingers skim over the newly closed wound. 

“Not anymore,” Connor says, honest and unmoving. 

They stay like that until Simon returns, a rumpled DPD sweatshirt in hand, with Hank and Governor Abay at his heels. Simon puts the sweatshirt on the corner of the conference table and goes to sit on the other side of Markus — Hank takes a seat beside Connor, clasping him on the shoulder firmly but kindly. 

The Governor has no choice but to sit opposite of them.

“Detective Anderson, I owe you an apology,” she says, solemn. He feels Hank go still, confused. “The events that took place today were an inexcusable occasion of ignorance on part of my staff and my self. You never should have been put in a position where you had to protect yourself and others from a threat of physical violence — that being said, I’m grateful that you took action.” 

“Um,” Connor says, blinking. “Just Connor is fine, Governor.” 

“Clearly, you acted in self-defence this afternoon. The video demonstrates that clearly, and so do all parties who have given eyewitness accounts, myself included. You will provide a statement to the DPD, but know that you have my personal guarantee that no charges will be brought against you.”

“I’m—” Connor starts, and pauses once more. Markus has slid his hand all the way down from the nape of his neck to the top of his right hand. “I’m grateful, for your reassurance.” He turns his own hand palm up and twines his fingers with Markus’ own. 

“I’d just like all of you to recognize that I’m not your enemy, here,” the Governor continues, laying her own hands out on the table, as if reaching for composure, or reassurance. 

“I can appreciate that you do not _want_ to be our enemy, Governor,” Markus says, voice firm as stone. “But that does not excuse what happened today.” 

“I am profoundly aware of that fact, Mr. Manfred — but I would not have made it as far as I have in life, much less politics, if I was too arrogant or naive to understand when someone has risked their safety for my own. So, thank you,” she says, addressing Connor directly by the time she finishes speaking. “Someone will be in to take your statement shortly, and the Lieutenant is welcome to stay — those of us present will have to excuse ourselves.” 

Connor nods, and squeezes Markus’ hand.

“What I said before — will you?” Markus starts and stalls, meeting Connor’s eyes with a seriousness he usually saves for rallying speeches.

Connor nods, and squeezes his hand again. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Connor says, ignoring a few raised eyebrows and one pointedly cleared throat — Simon, he thinks, ever concerned with being discrete.

Once everyone has left, Hank bumps his own shoulder into Connor’s.

“Detective Anderson, huh?” He says, grinning. 

“Oh,” Connor says. “When we were singing the bill — everyone had put something, a surname, and I thought about it but — I couldn’t write my model number, you know? So I wrote Anderson. I hope that’s okay.” 

“God,” Hank says, voice heavy with feeling. “It’s more than okay, kid. It’s — it’s more than okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update as soon as i can manage? comments and questions fuel my life. find me on tumblr at infomercial televangelist. i love y'all for coming to see me here, and i love y'all for bearing with me as i FINISH THIS STORY BECAUSE I AM GOING TO FINISH IT.

**Author's Note:**

> especially special thank to my dear friend, who you can find as baebot on tumblr. he introduced me to the game, and gave me encouragement, feedback, and good vibes. 
> 
> if you want to find me on tumblr too, i'm at ikeashowroom. 
> 
> thank you for reading, and i hope y'all decide to stick with me!
> 
> consider buying me a coffee, or a single piece of fresh fruit, in this economy: http://ko-fi.com/publictransit


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